The Scribbler | Needle and Thread | 2021 by Pine Crest School

NEEDLE AND THREAD

The Scribbler Needle and Thread May 2021 Pine Crest School Volume 55 Cover Art by Isabella Koopman

Needle and Thread ~Mynda Barenholtz~ We are at first nothing but a string and needle, full of trepidation and in search of direction.

Epigraph This year’s theme, Needle and Thread, is a means to portray how different experiences, stories, and images, thread us all together as people.

Inevitably, we push through our first patch, sewing together those first few memories. Perhaps a first day of school, meeting a new friend, or sitting alone at lunch. Patch after patch leading to opinions on movies and music, interests in biology, singing in musicals, or writing poems. Now, we fit into the suits that we have sewed ourselves; The patchwork of us.

STAFF Editor in Chiefs Mynda Barenholtz Spencer Davimos

Copy Editors Caroline Morrissey Matt Vega Saylee Nemade Gabrielle Pecoraro Typography Editors Ben Harvey Delaney Gertz Layout/Design Editors Sarah Wittich Samuel Morse

Graphic Arts Technician Karene Hermon Samuel Morse Jacob Liberman Art Editors Dasha Peppler Sarah Moss Publicity Team Leaders Jade Klacko Lily Fishman Isabella Koopman Moderator Ms. Macy Andersen Dailey

P O E T R Y

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A R T

S H O R S T T O R I E S

TABLE OF CONTENTS

My Life is a Tapestry ~Miraa Shukla~

My life is a tapestry, everything held together by thread. Each strand a story some showing how many tears I have shed. As days pass, oh how quickly they go, more strings are added and my collection of memories grows. I try to hide what I carry, my cargo, but sometimes things get hard and I drown in my sorrows. However, I have learned life is not always so bad because it is important for everyone to be glad. Helping others and flying across the stage will always make me let go of my ache. Tears of laughter, tears of pain. Days of good morrow, days of plague. Each string is holding a memory Each fiber holding a thought. Everything is held together by thread, but life is not as bad, now that I have rethought.

Intertwined ~Caia Farell~

i wish i had the luxury of weaving threads of notes into a cloth of song for someone to enjoy if i had the time or the talent to sew stars onto my arms so that maybe i could be found by someone important every melody i create returns to the shelves an echo chamber of ideas i’ve lost throughout the years the stanzas i write seem to feel like nothing more than a bunch of fabric pieces stitched together by unskilled hands i overindulge like a broken record never getting anywhere hoping maybe for the day i’ll make it in this world

~Isabella Arabia~

Bed

~Emilia Velasquez~

Fear of the Dark ~Bryce Hamaway~ At five years old the fears of the mind are trivial, having your toys taken away or, perhaps, a paper cut. For me, the dark filled this role. Unable to see, my juvenile mind created endless possibilities. Was that an evil doll in the corner of my room? I was always told how creative I was. But in the dark, creativity was a curse. The blackness itself was never what I was afraid of. The darkness fused all my other fears together. By simply thinking of something, the dark could become it. If I was afraid of snakes, every sound became a hiss. My fear exposed itself in the basement of my home. I stayed down there all day, playing Ping Pong and Air Hockey. Getting down there caused problems however. At night we keep the lights off and, in the morning, I go down to turn them on. Unfortunately for me, the lights were not next to the door. They were across the room. I tiptoed around, so as to not disturb the demons. I fell to my knees when I heard a sound, imagining ghosts above me. Every once and awhile, I would whisper threats, “I have garlic,” or, “don’t make me use this silver bullet.” Every time, I would find my way there after what seemed like an eternity. I was aware I could not live my life in everlasting fear, but did not know how to get over it either. Luckily for me, I had an unlucky experience to move me along. It happened on a family camping trip. Our fire dwindled, and I was selected by the committee - consisting of only my brother - to wander out into the woods alone to collect wood for the fire. Leaving the campsite, I thought it would be a good opportunity to confront my fear. I would soon regret everything. Turning back, burdened by the wood haul, I realized the dark obscured my route back. The warmth of the fire was gone. The safety of camp. The sounds of laughter from my family. They all seemed like a distant memory. Darkness surrounded me, a cold, black darkness that made my voice disappear. Not even crickets sang. My ears rang in the silence. I could smell the greenery around me. Branches blocked the light of the moon. This was untamed darkness. Darkness that gripped around my neck and breathed through me. Darkness that was not blunted by the protection of my house. My mind immediately raced with all the possibilities: clowns, ghosts, snakes, Frankenstein’s monster, chupacabras, a new monster I created called the glushanflacendorf. They surrounded me. I knew it. And yet, I stood there. They never attacked. They never appeared before me. They never came. Something else did. Something wonderful.

As I stood frozen in the darkness, the beauty of the forest finally revealed itself. Owls called out. A small river created the sounds of rippling water. The white sand, although darker in the night, still glistened. The thick trunks of the trees stood tall above all danger. The icy breeze suddenly felt warmer. Freed from panic, I found my way back. We returned from the trip and I wanted to go to the basement. I skipped down there, and the darkness greeted me. But this time, when I traversed the darkness, my mind never raced. I reached the light switch and flicked it. What greeted me was not any different than the dark. A different kind of light bulb had been turned on.

A Woman and Her Dentures

~Isabella Arabia~

Frozen Heart ~Samantha Port~ I watched the snow fall from the sky to ground, Building up like words and feelings. The frozen rain came fluttering down And stole my heart worth stealing. It landed right upon my head I felt no discomfort or weight. It’s comforting chill was just so right T’was like a twist of fate. The snow melted through to my roots And told me I’m amazing It showed me all new worlds and places, It even took me star-gazing. As more snow fell, it was magical Like a dream you don’t think could come true But if it were truly meant to be, It would see itself right through. Snow piled up top upon my hair And melted through my clothes I was soaking wet from toes to head To arms, to chest, to nose. But the cold snow became bitter and brought me pain So suddenly and cruel It froze my body so completely It made me feel like a fool. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe I couldn’t feel a part. I sunk in the snow, up to my shoulders Along with my frozen heart.

Justice Traps the Guilty ~Tehila Setton~

Leftovers ~Sophia Yevoli~

First Blizzard of the Season ~Caroline Morrissey~ I made angels in our ashes, Build a man up out of us. Caught each fleck upon eyelashes And built igloos out of trust. I take anger from your eyes And knit myself a sweater. A colorful disguise To beat this nasty weather. Your cold heart bites my ears, And it nips at my ten fingers. I’ve been snowbound here for years, Still sweeping up your cinders. Though your blizzard winds still shake My hasty-built log cabin, In the morning I will wake To a snowy-white Manhattan.

Hypothermia

~Caroline Morrissey~

How much chaos is death? Wind and snow whipping Side-view mirrors, licking at windows, sticking Icy fingers under doors and through jacket zippers. Though in the mornings, she’s calm. Soft, clean, inviting. Snow Eats us up to our ankles, and we’re glad, sometimes. We make new life out of frozen putty. Mine A bit taller than hers. More sturdy. Black eyes And dad’s old scarf and now, among the skeleton trees, Someone is born. Unaware that when sun seeps Back into earth -- when green and life return, and cheeks Lose their cherry-- he’ll sink back into sludge-- thick, and Grey. Dad’ll gather up his scarf and bits of coal, and halfway Through we’ll see what’s left of our frozen friend. He sees us, says, “There’ll be flowers here by weekend.”

The Witch and the Hare ~Samuel Morse~

The Stare ~Diya Jain~

The World Ends in September ~Mynda Barenholtz~ I. The earth is buried every year, Brown leaves float down to be Trampled into the earth, feeding worms. Days shrink quickly into velvet, Leaving the moon to dance with Clouds of carbon dioxide Shuttling out from chimneys.

III. Perhaps they then forgive us, Scraping the world clean And sending us olive branches To envy and pick, cut and drown, Until they fit in bowls on kitchen tables. The rain pours down night after night after night While we hide away in our arks of concrete.

II. Frozen orbs are sent from angels, Cold enough to remind us we are human. Icing our rooftops and car hoods, While knocking on windows Filled with plastic trees and Plastic lights and plastic people, While the snow men’s grins melt away.

IV. We are marked. Rushing into lapping waves, We forget about the sand that has been Ground down for thousands of years, Our ancestors’ bones under our feet. The have returned to their purest form. You will be next, The wind whispers into our hair. The earth is to be buried again.

I Hope ~Jonah Ferber~ I cry, for all the people lost, I cry, for the human cost, I cry, for the pain caused by frost, I cry.

I scream, for the things done to me, I scream, for the joys I will never see, I scream, for my spirit no longer free, I scream.

I die, because of another’s hate, I die, because it is my fate, I die, but for now in pain I wait, I die. And yet, I hope I hope I hope, that elsewhere others are fine, I hope, that they’ll never read this awful sign, I hope, that on Shabbat they’re drinking wine, I hope.

Subvineon Stroll The snow came at seven, flecks hung From the gray mountain of sky above. I slip on a fresh coat and socks, tucking til I am walking winter-wear With wide white eyes and woolen fingers. The air is velvet in my nose and ice Against my ribs. I step into the icy wetness of night as street lamps hang sorry heads over black cement. Metal fingers Spill thick amber light from above And it pools below, bathing worn Out boots in orange glow. I tuck My phone under my arm and the moon tucks Its sleepy eye behind a cloud. I dodge ice, wading into the sea of snow piled where The sidewalk was. Before, I’d hang From the leafless trees and melt into the blue above. Now, everything is silver sleet. I finger At my zipper, knocking bits of snow tucked

~Caroline Morrissey ~ within each plastic notch. Felt freely and soft rain tucked. Above my head I feel that dense halo of icy Air licking hair that hangs Out from my hat. I should’ve worn A warmer one, but the bite of cold where My ears meet frozen air calms me. My fingers Are numb and they hang Limply from my knuckles. I tuck Under a low branch that’s buried in ice, And meet my destination. The air above The blinking light of the lodge glows above The fresh sheath of snow. Where Once I stared in awe, I now look sadly. I see Where little fingers Picked flowers from fresh grass and tucked Them behind my little ears. I hang Above the house, above where fingers Felt freely and soft rain tucked.

Olivia en Bleu ~Isabella Arabia~

What Was Our Sin? ~Jonah Ferber ~ I’ve lost so much, I’ve lost it all, My wife, my kids, To them I call. There’s no answer, There’s no respite, I lie so crowded, Yet alone each night. My clothes are gone, My body sore, And yet I fight, For one day more. I can’t give up, I can’t give in, Each day a horror, What was our sin?

Two Glass Prisms

~Spencer Davimos~ I think of your name a lot the way it’s encased in a melody only I hum— a soft “oo” sound tucked between two consonants that fall at the outer edges of your name. I know your warmer side, The one no one sees. I see it in the cracks of your lips When you tilt my chin towards the sunlight And a burst of colors Pour from out of me. At school, We walk past each other Under artificial lights. Two prisms— Hollow, colorless, Glass geometric figures, Bereft of the sun, Forming into whatever surrounds us until we Meet in the fields again, and melt into Gardenias and the vanilla air.

Conquer

~Isabella Koopman~

Lullaby Heart

~Ellie Gomez~

I feel uneasy when I’m not around you and calm when you are there. You make it easier and harder to be myself around you all at once; letting go, and keeping myself in check at all times. As I listen to the music, I can’t help but think of you; how you sound, how you smell. How you make me smile about the stupidest things in the world. I feel no ache in my heart, but my body longs to be next to yours. This is a song I would play to rest my head on your chest, to hear your heart beating. A beautiful piece like this that I can hear coming from your fingers that coax living wonders from the simple piano keys. I could spend the rest of my life with my head on your shoulder as you play me this lullaby. The world could be burning, but I would only hear this song, your voice, telling me about the things that light up your eyes. I would only see your hands, which have pulled me from the brink more times than I can count. I would only feel your arms around mine when you hug me. I would only smell the scent that is so you, that is so ingrained in my memory. How can I say these words to you? I never know how in the moment. My hands cannot yet bring the melodies to life like you do. My voice breaks when I try to speak. My eyes cloud when I try to see. I barely exist, numb to the world, when I try to tell you. The only thing I can do is show you, I suppose. That is for another day, though. For now, all I can do is soothe my mind with this lullaby as I imagine you with me, dancing to this piece like you danced away with my heart.

Puppy Love ~Diya Jain~

The Pursuit

~Garhyson Gaddy~

“Save us from the beast o’ foul,” my father exclaims. I grumblingly begin my quest. I drag my feet. The floor as glossy as the sweat on my face. A fine place for death. With its stench bellowing up and courage in my heart, I engage. I lure it out, a grossly sorry sight, its form appears. The Medusa engages! We tussle. I think of this monster, made of my own failures or waste, my quest to destroy my creation. Though based on smell, this monster must always think of death.

Silent Killer ~Samuel Morse~ What lurks behind every corner, Deftly stalking every footstep? It has no names, no faces, no joys. Only bitter hatred, and it bitterly destroys. Ipso facto, the indomitable foe to all. Its cold frost incinerates the chutzpah to dare shine one’s overzealous light, in everlasting, ever-ending spite.

I force the mangled bag of despair through the fields of its premise. The death of all I fear is only feet away. I raise the brute over its tomb as the darkness engages me to end the fiend in its foretold containment. I let go—of my guilt, my scorn, and my quest.

All is lost to its numinous presence, as it absorbs and morphs all that requires well-deserved penance.

I HATE taking out the trash. I mean—The biggest quests, even death, engage us all in the end.

It listens intently, hearing many a mumble, waiting for anyone near to stumble.

One mustn’t use its name lightly, lest one it appears.

Purging all light, and darkening all doors, When its passing has passed, all light has breathed-- its very last. It is the silent killer that is known by all, and when it is realized, all will fall.

Todd the Anchor ~Ella McGuire~ For every wedding And break of a chain Todd the Anchor is there Guarding the entrance Todd the Anchor gave me money Todd the Anchor gave me a name I wanted it back, I wanted each Chiavari Chair the same Todd the Anchor gave me money Todd the Anchor gave me a name Is it urgency Or is it love? I didn’t know So I said “Mazel tov!”

Camping Adventure ~Diya Jain~

Scorpius

~Mary Goncharenko~

Creature ~Sophia Yevoli~

Unconscious Awareness ~Isabella Koopman~

Evil Eye ~Isabella Arabia~

Wrath

~Emilia Velasquez~

22 28

Sick

~Sophia Yevoli~

Destruction

~Isabella Arabia~

Coffee With Grandpa

~Spencer Davimos~

The final car ride to grandpa’s house felt like a funeral procession. The only sound was the air conditioning. Playing music felt disrespectful to my mother, who had already reached the grieving phase. Mom never expressed her emotions through facial expressions. I don’t think I ever saw her raise an eyebrow when my father and I would surprise her with bed and breakfast on mother’s day— not because she wasn’t happy, but because she is better at demonstrating her feelings through her hands. Rather than let out a shriek of joy that day, she stretched out her arms and shook her hands like a Broadway dancer striking her final pose at the end of a musical number. That day, she showed her mourning by anxiously drumming her fingers against the steering wheel and chewing her nails at every stoplight. As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed that the site of his house looked like a graveyard. The plants were either falling over from months without watering, or were ripped from the soil, their roots exposed like veiny arms. A cryptic feeling washed over me, and by her looks, it did Mom, too, who started to go pale in the face. “Do you want to go in with me?” I asked. I was hoping she’d say yes, not only because she had gone months without visiting him, but also because I was scared to face him alone. I expected he’d look worse from my most recent visit the week prior, and I would’ve appreciated the company of my Mom, comforting me. “I’m okay. It’s important you have your alone time with him.” “I think he’d be happy to see you.” “I don’t think so. Your grandpa loves you more than anyone else in the family.” I hated whenever Mom said “my grandpa”. I used to think that purposely not calling him her dad was an underhanded way of rejecting him as a parental figure in her life. “My grandpa” couldn’t reclaim his memory after Alzheimer’s took it from him, just as a paraplegic can’t regain feeling in his legs.

I decided to let what she said go because I could tell she was struggling to come to terms with the fact that his physical health was sinking. For years, my parents found a way to use uplifting phrases, like, “At least he isn’t in pain” or “Even though his memory’s gone, he still never fails to smile— and that’s all you can wish for someone his age.” As he started to experience both, however, the pep talks were gone. My dad would pat my back before I left the house with Mom. He knew I was too old to be lied to. “Tell grandpa I say hi and that I love him,” Mom said as I opened the car door. “I will.” “I’ll be in soon.” As she drove away, I walked down the last stretch of the driveway to the graveyard-surrounded house. Mrs. Phillips let me in. She had been my grandpa’s live-in caretaker for the past year and slept in the guest room on the second story. She was like a teddy bear— kind, affectionate, a little round, and had an infectious laugh. She hugged me when I walked in. Since the day my mom hired her, Mrs. Phillips has been part of our family. Before we found her, Mom was considering sending grandpa to a nursing home. It wasn’t something we wanted to do, but there were no nurses who were willing to be round-the-clock caretakers. She was our saving grace. “Hi, pumpkin! How was your week?” I told her about what happened at school—tests, friends—as we walked to the kitchen. The house had not been renovated for 30 years and had a mix of wallpapers with busy patterns, like a roller skating rink from the 70s. The decor did not reflect the ghostly exterior at all.

My grandpa was already seated at the round table next to the kitchen. He looked like he had lost 10 more pounds this week, but his frail complexion probably stood out to me more because he was wearing a polo shirt that looked to be an XXL size. He was balding but still had a few white hairs left that congregated at the center of his head.

“I already made you both cups of coffee. There’s some milk and spoons if it’s too strong for you.” Mrs. Phillips said. “Thank you so much. You really didn’t have to. Next time, I can make it myself.” “It wasn’t a problem. I’ll leave you two to it.” Mrs. Phillips left and headed upstairs. She used to make the best biscuits and honey whenever I stopped by, but because of his new feeding tube, Grandpa couldn’t eat them unless they were pureed. I would’ve felt bad eating in front of him and making him feel like he was missing out. Coffee was the one thing the two of us could have together. “What did you do today?” This was the question I’d ask him at the start of every conversation we had. Mom used to get angry when I asked him questions back when she joined me on my visits. She’d say asking questions to someone with Alzheimer’s is like asking a blank wall. I’d never get the answer I wanted, which was not one at all. “It’s okay if you don’t have an answer, it’s a tricky question. Sometimes, I have trouble remembering what I had for breakfast when night rolls around.” I laughed to break the silence. I took a sip of my coffee as he tapped his spoon against the rim of his mug. “Do you want to know how my day was?” He didn’t respond and began to slump in his chair, his mouth agape, like he was given news that he had won the lottery, yet he laid emotionless. His pupils were lightening to a gray almost the color of his glassy eyes. Sometimes I’d say to myself that maybe it was better for him to suffer mentally than physically, to avoid suffering the pain of old age. But I knew that he was falling apart on the inside, even if his face didn’t show it. “I came back from a sleepover at my friend’s house. We were watching my school’s football team’s first game of the season. I’m not sure why. Neither of us knows anything about the sport. But we could tell our team sucked by looking at the scoreboard. We lost 30-3. It was pretty sad.”

He stretched out his arms and reached for his coffee as though it was on the opposite end for the table, but I moved his hands to where the mug was. Once he got his hand around the handle, he used his empty hand to shoo mine away, like he never needed my assistance in the first place. He traced the letters on the mug with his fingers as they fluttered. He was trying to mouth the words, World’s Best Grandpa, but I’m not sure if he knew what they meant, or if he even knew he was a grandpa— let alone mine. “Do you know what that means?” He hovered over the cup and furrowed his brows as his eyes widened, his mouth hanging open, but this time in a show of fascination. I edged closer to him to figure out what was so interesting about a cup of coffee. Maybe he was just trying to keep himself busy while I droned on about stupid football games, but maybe there was something more. He moved back to let me take a look inside the cup, but all I saw was a rippled reflection of myself. For some reason, I started to cry. I wondered if my grandpa saw me as the twisted reflection through the coffee. But that’s what Alzheimer’s did to him— it took a familiar face and warped it into something unrecognizable, like one of those carnival mirrors. “You look pretty,” he said. Not just to me, but at me. He said it while looking straight into my reddened and puffy eyes smudged with mascara. I turned on my phone and looked into the camera. I didn’t look like this much of a mess since when my dog died last year. My nose was running and I looked pale, as if blood had left my face. But despite how I looked, he didn’t tear his eyes away from me, and for the first time ever, I felt like he knew who I was. I lifted my mug to clink his. “To us,” I said. We didn’t talk for the rest of the time I was there. Instead, I hummed to the beat he tapped his mug with his spoon.

Abandoned Dreams ~Camila Agudelo~

Purple Sparkly Pepper Spray

~Caroline Morrissey~

As the group converses, I thumb over the flattened old sequins of my purple sparkly pepper spray key chain. I know that it’s still full (thankfully from lack of use) but it feels so empty and light that I second guess it whenever I lift it up with my keys. I flick the trigger in and out of the lock position and I look up to speak. The faces around me smile the kinds of smiles whose eyebrows raise and eyes squint to say “This is not okay but I’ll laugh like it is.” I start. “I have a good one!” The girls lean in to listen. I tell them the story I always start out with-- the one where I am shopping for sushi at the grocery store. I am lost in the cinnamon-scented air of mid-December Fresh Market, surveying my options over-top the swelling classical orchestrations of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and other holiday classics. I tell them how, as I lean forward to pick up a salmon-cado roll and a plastic cup of eel sauce, I feel a man’s chin hover over my shoulder and I hear a low, damp whisper graze my ear: “Your hair looks so cute today.”

I tell them how in that next second I whip around to catch sight of the whisper’s owner yet I am met only by the curved, dress shirt covered back of a middle aged businessman. He slips out of the sliding doors labeled “EXIT.” They laugh softly and suck air in through their teeth and the next girl volunteers. She tells us about her family trip to Europe. How one lazy afternoon when she ran to the pharmacy for Advil she caught some other shopper’s eye, and how he followed her all the way back to the front doors of her hotel and would’ve continued inside if she hadn’t asked the front desk to be chaperoned. A third shoots her hand up. She is rubbing her knee with her other hand anxiously. She lists off her driving encounters: old men sticking arms out their windows towards her, sliding their torsos out of the passenger side to try to press their lips on her windows, pulling up too close at stoplights to call her cute, waving fingers, asking for numbers or destinations. She explains that that’s why she keeps her convertible top up, unless she’s with a boy or another couple of girls since there’s safety in outnumbering. She explains that that’s why she shuts her windows and turns down her music and slides down in her seat at stoplights. She explains why where once she loved driving aimlessly for hours, she can only drive to school and to errands so as to not add another story to her exhausting list. Another jumps in with her own car stories--this time about road rage. How men lay on their horns, scream out their windows, and drive erratically to disorient her if she cuts them off by accident. We all nod. I turn to the other girl in the circle whom I know is a dancer and we talk about our past male instructors. We trade stories of when one of them would hold our abdomens or lower hips for too long or too tightly under the guise of posture correction. She tells me about how, when she stretched before class, her teacher brushed back a stray hair and tucked it behind her ear just a little too slowly, and I aside to her how mine would offer only the young girls in class back massages as we warmed up at the barres. We know we could go on like this for hours -- and sometimes we do. We sing this round whenever there’s a lull in conversation or when one of us sees on the news how another congressman or faded actor is accused of some sort of inappropriate behavior by some subordinate or fan or old flame. We pass this torch between us and hash and rehash our stories of bigger older men squeezing us down underneath their thumbs, never to the point of telling parents or teachers or other men in uniforms but definitely to the point where we might shed a tear or two once we’re back in the safety of our bedrooms. Never-- well, not yet-- to the point where I have to empty out my pepper spray key chain. And so, our girlish chorus sings this droning, repetitive song each week, unsure if the next one might see an emptier pepper spray bottle or even an emptier chair.

Peekaboo

~Isabella Arabia~

Sorry, I Left It at My Mom’s House ~Sophia Yevoli~ At 11:30 on a Wednesday, the night was so cold and blustery umbrellas shut inside-out. His mom lay on a cot in a room with beige walls and died once. God watched from the west window, moon a spotlight on a 50¢ pen advertising an investment firm. His mom came alive and his dad cried and God smiled at what was left of her stomach, split in half. No wind slunk in but the clipboard shifted and revealed a name: Cameron, it said, but the ink ran out around the ‘e’ so it read Cam. In preschool his dad called him Cam so we did too. Only his mom called him Cameron and it stuck, not the way memories stuck--like sounds of screaming and his dad leaving out the back window-but it stuck like too-tight collars do, like a uniform he can’t take off, Cameron monogrammed script on his school collar. So Cam used a sticky note to cover the ‘eron’ on his uniform. Only his mom called him Cameron, so at school just Cam was okay. One day Cam didn’t show up. I was playing GoGos in the corner where I pretended I was a piece of furniture on the alphabet carpet; A storm raged until the windows shuddered and I wondered if Cam got stolen by the wind, flown off on a Mary Poppins umbrella. Then he wobbled in like a zombie who’d been torn in half; he sat on the letter ‘s,’ sighed the letter ‘o,’ and didn’t flick his GoGo very hard, so it stayed right there on the letter ‘s’ with him. He tugged at his collar, buttoned all the way up to his chin and said his dad wouldn’t be picking him up anymore, so if I could please call him Cameron instead.

Hermits in Their Hermit Houses ~Isabella Arabia~

Conversation with Sophia

~Spencer Davimos~

Does time bury memories in the clouds? Shape them into rain that precipitates to home base? Or does time bury memories in paper envelopes- for my guardian angel to protect under her wings? Just two months ago, we sat at this table. Our final lunch together. The drapes under your eyes weighed down your face (if I had reached over and held your face in the palm of my hands, I could have traced the grill marks all the way back to your ears). A ball and chain hung from your spine, which caused your body to slump into the shape of a question mark. I watched your hands shake while you struggled to lift your cheese sandwich to your mouth, as if you tried to join together magnets from the same pole. I didn’t know what to say to you. Would you have felt weird if I asked whether you slept the night before? Embarrassed? Confused? I still wonder if things would have turned out differently had I asked. My mind was scrambled eggs in a heated pan, and I couldn’t store my concerns back inside the shell. Where does time bury the good memories? Inside of an old pizza box I’ve yet to throw out? Or have they collected dust while trapped in the crevices of my couch? Your laugh has formed a shadow that lurks beside me in the halls of this school. When we walk, it brushes against my fingertips, compliments my hair, tells me I could get any guy I want. It resonates in everything I hear— the sound of the bell that rings when class starts and ends, the whispers of our classmates, coins clicking into the vending machines. You’re everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. I remember you once told me that words lose their meaning the second they’re written down. Once you place them on a sheet of paper it can be crumpled up and tossed into the trash before it ever meets the hands of the person you wanted to have read it. You said the only words that have permanence are ones inscribed on the skin, and I know that as time passes, my memory of that conversation will fade from me. But, my memory of you now rests in the lines of your name that I got tattooed on my wrist. As I trace it, I can faintly feel your touch.

Raggedy Ann

~Sophia Yevoli~

Order and Chaos

~Isabella Arabia~

A Shady Sunset ~Priya Ghanta~

Dementia

~Payton Kennelly~

Grandma’s language of emotion was Spanish. When she was angry or upset, it was Spanish. When she made me sweaters that I never wore because we live in Florida, she would say, “princesa, mira, mira.” Her love came in the form of sweaters so I would smile “thank you.” One day, her hand stopped guiding. Her sewing machine ran its course, tangling thread together and undoing years of stitching in her mind. She folded up her fabrics, the velvet and gossamer and tulle, and boxed them in the furthest corner of her closet. When we left the house, I guided her hand in the parking lot, but it was cold and her Spanish tangled into English until she refused to speak.

Gemini

~Mary Goncharenko~

Poor Planning

~Langdon Jones~

She locked the door but the machine kept going. It bit through thread until there was nothing left until the pushpins only pricked and no longer held the cloth together until it ran empty and rusted and my mother had to turn off the light in Grandma’s sewing room.

Sunset on a Balcony of a Place Unknown

~Rachel Becker~

The sun dips below the horizon. From the balcony she watches, all the way till the end Of a night that brings back Memories of a young girl sitting In her backyard with her parents, Looking up at the sky Above the Weston Hills golf course. Sky blue pink, the only words Out of her mouth. From where she watches now It isn’t the same. Now she sees an ocean. A sense of despair Illuminates its vast and emptiness, A reflection of her heart, Yearning for the memories Of that golf course sunset. Soon darkness arrives, as if the world has come to an end.

Another day gone.. A sunset falls, Earth’s wave goodbye.

Vanilla Lattes ~Ari Bernick~

I find happiness in Ice coffee Three pumps of vanilla, two tablespoons of almond milk, one pack of sugar Gestures of humanity Picking up pieces of trash. Holding someone’s hand. Asking a friend, “how was your day?” Belly laughs Pointless jokes that cause infinite laughing fits. Clenching your stomach smiling through he words, “it’s not even funny!” Untouched nature Vivid green vines, noisy frogs, natural tree houses, tiny streams of water on a pebble path Strength Talking about problems, learning how to grow, finding a voice

Why we Built Boxes

~Sydney Friedman~

Because the lady with the tight bun holding back gray hair told us to. The cabin next to the lake near the yellow grass that went up to our waists was her domain. Maybe the bats hated her as much as we did and that’s why they didn’t stay with the rabbit and chinchilla and turtle inside. So we built boxes--each with a single hole. We needed to make homes for the bats. They didn’t like the trees in Minnesota I guess. Only one home was put up-- on a phone pole that stuck out of the yellow grass near the cabin like the lady’s nose as she walked. She walked that way when Matthew got lost in the tall grass and her pinched back shoulders had to wade through the coarse stalks Why did we build the home for the bats during the day? We all knew the next day we would walk this trail again to peer through that single hole and the bats wouldn’t be there. Bats have standards.

Lady of the Sunflowers ~Isabella Arabia~

Angel of Mine ~Madeline Hurt~

I Heard Crying in the Next Room

~Sophia Yevoli~

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious.” My mother coaxed me forward with her hand. “..Me too,” I sat on a crinkling paper-covered cot. Lights above me flickered; walls blinked with medical diagrams I couldn’t comprehend. “I’m sure.” We waited a long while, the room so clean and perfect I felt I was the dirty one, ripping paper beneath me, smearing dust on squeaky tile. When my doctor came in he didn’t say hello; he just sighed, face warped with shadows. The crying stopped. Or maybe I just couldn’t hear it anymore.

Lao Bai Xing ~Isabella Arabia~

Legs

~Avi Patel~

I awoke in the same white and empty room, While the coat wearing posse entered and checked, To see if all of my vitals were correct, So they could finally dispatch me out of this doom. It felt as if my life had become still, A passage of months felt like a blip, With the recovery painful, rather than quick, And this day returned my free will. A nurse then pressed a button to my side, Which lifted my back to a straightened position, Enabling me to see the omission, That forever changed the way I reside, A replacement of flesh into threads of iron, Attached to my knees and connected by tendons, Their slimness often made my torso tremble, But saved me from what was lost in the fire. A lack of listening and impulsive choices, Led to a coma and a costly replacement, A discharge that only meant my own abasement, Leaving me jobless and with these braces. But enough of the wallow, it’s time to leave, I was helped on my feet and brought to my kin, Wife and kids waiting with balloons and a grin, And also some presents that I was joyful to receive.

Together we walked through the hospital hall, With nurses and get well signs following rear, Alarming other visitors with the flooding of cheers, The presence of happiness made my sadness small.

It continued with more visitors, who greeted with smiles, But as we walked more, something was strange, The position of their eyes began to change, Aiming at my face to the floor and the tiles. Was it that my shoes have some apparent stain? Or my laces bundled, dirty and untied? Nevertheless, I continued towards the outside, Excitement of normalcy flowed through my veins. But the confusion continued as more people passed, Now even eye contact seemed devoid, The excitement within me became annoyed, As my son opened the door to the outside at last. Waiting in the parking lot gave me time to think, About the awkward expressions that I was shown, Could it be that these legs that replaced my bones, Held more weight than my face or my eyes that blink? It angered me; people couldn’t see beyond my chains, Like any other part of me didn’t exist, My strength, my loyalty, or even my wit, Couldn’t surpass the urge to observe my pains. The anger left quiet tears pitched in my eyes, For being healed meant nothing more than suffering, Forever a target of anyone’s muttering, And statements of assurance were just selfish lies. As the car pulled up towards the hospital’s wall, I rather wished I could be back in the room, Where happiness thrived amongst my solitude, Because while legs made me tall, I was forever small.

Motion in Color ~Ayesha Minhas~

Ides of March ~Joshua Martoma~ Caesar’s Death On the ides of March Noblemen impaled Caesar Changing destiny Calpurnia’s Dream Romans bathing in Blood spewing from great Caesar Is what she dreamed of Brutus’ Fight With Cassius Two noble brothers Split over their differences Makeup in the end Antony’s Love for Caesar Even in passing Antony adored Caesar so He started a war

It Will Grow ~Johnny Ricotta~ There was once a forest here my dear, Now ash is all it knows. But as we go into the year, I tell you it will grow. High and mighty natural walls, Accompanied this river’s flow, But it was certain they’d all fall, Still I tell you it will grow. I saw a girl come here my love, She took a little stroll, Through the soot, then looked above, And told God “It will grow.” My dear I have to tell you something that will blow your mind, Finally I can get that moment of “I told you so”, I walked down the land and like I said in twelve months time, I found a tree, and like I said, I told you it would grow.

Shell ~Sophia Yevoli~

Florida Weather

~Sarah Bolja~

Heat licked at my already rosey cheeks through the glass window. If only that window ceased to exist. The sun’s rays could reach out and graze my skin by the tips. There is a brilliance in its warmth, glowing from the ends of my eyelashes, deep brown though they are. Eyes mirroring pools of maple syrup, sickly sweet amber swirls, flecked with gold leaf and cinnamon.

Through the Eyes of an Immigrant ~Isabella Arabia~

But the clouds that gather, a silver-fade, command the skies today. Droplets fell between my fingers hitting the murky waves beside my cheek. Oh how the rain traces sweet paths on my skin, It brings richness to each hue. The once golden rays found in my gaze Is now overcome with a pitch black sea. But after each storm the sunshine returns, Oblivious to the life given by the rain.

Things I Missed Since the World Ended ~Caroline Morrissey~

I miss concert sweats and sandy sneakers, Airplane gum and cinema velvet. I miss salty hair and cherry cheeks and Linked pinkies and tip-touched noses. I miss hand games and goofy smiles And roller coaster seat belts. I miss bleacher screams and glitter lips, Chewed up erasers and movie theater tissues. I miss mouthed out secrets and standing ovations, Lollipops, Popsicles, and breath mints. I miss dinner dates and free sushi And hurried Uber when things don’t click. I miss measuring hands and kicking shins And shoulder hugs and bumping knuckles. I miss crowd loudness and Broadway silence And bleeding neon city lights. I miss restaurant hopping and froyo toppings, Ice cream samples and pointe shoe fittings I miss stage makeup and hairspray air And spotlight burn and post-show pancakes.

I miss passing pulses and final bows And rose bouquets and last-show cake. I miss after-party makeup wipes And 3 am McDonalds. I miss resting heads on shoulders And eyes in hands. I miss Playbill piles and parade confetti, Stale hotel room air and stiff hotel room sheets. I miss puffer jackets and itchy hats, Ice skate soreness and high heel blisters. I miss sparkling apple cider and stolen champagne And party blowers and birthday candles. I miss messy cheek kisses and lipstick stains And flipping dusty record sleeves in your laundry room. I miss stale Chips Ahoys And old perfume on cashmere sweaters And math lessons and war stories and baked ziti. And I hope I won’t have to miss much more of you Or your thick Long Island accent that twists Your words up like bendy straws. I hope I won’t have to miss your voice on the phone Or the way you say ‘I love you’ Before you hang it up.

Colophon The Scribbler publishes annually, displays the best literary and artistic work of Pine Crest School students. Our mission is to provide a forum and audience for emerging student writers and artists. Entries are solicited from the Upper School student body through a school-wide call for submissions. We accept Online submissions of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art and photography. Each year, the staff chooses a theme through popular vote. While not a requirement for publication, stronger consideration may be given to pieces that demonstrate the theme. The meetings and production of The Scribbler occur outside of school hours. The current editors-in-chief, in consultation with the advisor, select the editors and staff writers annually based on applications and the previous year’s performance of duties. Students produce the publication using InDesign and Photoshop. This year’s fonts are set in Minion Pro. The Scribbler offers print and electronic versions of the literary magazine. Print Dynamics of Fort Lauderdale, Florida print 120 perfect bound copies of the magazine which the editors-in-chief deliver throughout the school.

The Scribbler Pine Crest School Fort Lauderdale, FL 33334 http://www.pinecrest.edu/scribbler

The Scribbler | Needle and Thread | 2021

Articles inside

SORRY, I LEFT IT AT MY MOM’S HOUSE | Sophia Yevoli

CONVERSATION WITH SOPHIA | Spencer Davimos

A WOMAN AND HER DENTURES | Isabella Arabia

COFFEE WITH GRANDPA | Spencer Davimos

FEAR OF THE DARK | Bryce Hamaway